


Weeping Mists

by squirenonny



Category: Cosmere - Brandon Sanderson, Mistborn - Brandon Sanderson, Stormlight Archive - Brandon Sanderson
Genre: 31 Days of Sadfic, CFSWF, Crossover, Darkeyes!Ati, Darkeyes!Leras, Gen, Preservation!Kaladin, Ruin!Tien
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2015-07-21
Packaged: 2018-04-10 10:17:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4388042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squirenonny/pseuds/squirenonny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two protectors, and the ones they failed to save.</p><p>Written for CFSWF 2015.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Scadrial

Rain covered the land, a heavy blanket of darker-than-usual gray stretching from Luthadel to the Northern Dominance. Mists retreated, and an ashen slurry flowed down rough-cobbled streets. Rain was rare in the Final Empire, but when it came it lasted for days. Never pouring, never breaking; a steady drizzle.

A Weeping, the skaa called it. Some twist of fate had carried the name through the chaos that had wiped out the religion that coined it. No one now living, not even the Terris Keepers, remembered the legend of the Weepings.

The legend of a man who had become a god and cried for the fate of the world.

Kaladin had never been certain how they’d heard his human name. Hoid, perhaps. The power of Preservation granted Kaladin enough awareness to know when that interloper visited Scadrial, but he was a slippery man. If he didn’t want to talk to Kaladin—and he never did—he quite simply wouldn’t be found.

The legend of the Weepings was wrong in at least one respect. The rains were not Kaladin’s own tears. Nor were they a symptom of his changing moods, though he did have a tendency to slip into darker thoughts if he dwelled too long where the storm took root.

Sometimes, as today, he sought the rains. Better than the ash elsewhere, or the lonely skies above.

It hadn’t always been lonely, up where their childhood sun was just one diamond chip among many.

The thought came like a patter of rain, loose and scattered, in fragments of cold and sound. It was harder to manifest in rain than in mist. Kaladin seldom took the trouble, especially when he wanted distance from his thoughts.

He fell, a glimmer of his mind in each raindrop, falling from low-hanging clouds to the streets and hillsides and rooftops below. His thoughts chased him with more perseverance than on most nights. Fragments of memories, disjointed images as small as the droplets he inhabited. Voices he hadn’t heard in millennia. Faces, too.

One face in particular. The face Ruin hadn’t worn since before they created mankind.

The face of a boy called Tien.

* * *

_The Shard’s power rushed in, momentarily overwhelming Kaladin. No mere human was meant to hold such power, not hold it and survive. Awareness expanded so rapidly Kaladin wondered if he_ had _died, and this was the afterlife._

_Then he adjusted, came back to himself. For all the power humming in his bones, he hardly felt different._

_A happy accident, as he later discovered. His Shard was more attuned to him than some others’. Preservation. A protective force, well-suited to the soldier-surgeon who had counted it his personal mission to protect the other fifteen._

_For one isolated moment, the Cosmere held its breath, every atom in its place._

_Kaladin turned, and saw his brother._

_The flicker of fear left Tien’s eyes the instant he saw Kaladin looking, replaced by a smile so brilliant Kaladin wondered if he hadn’t been imagining things._

_“Preservation,” Tien said. “I knew it.”_

_Kaladin couldn’t answer, couldn’t even fake a smile. Tien’s Shard wrote itself into his eyes, his restless fingers, the slant of his shoulders. A foul, twisted Shard that was so fundamentally wrong it_ hurt _to look at Tien, smiling through his burden._

 _Tien’s eyes were strained. “It’s okay, Kaladin._ I’m _okay.”_

_He said it again in the coming days. Again and again. Each time, Kaladin heard the Shard taunting him with death and destruction, laughing through Tien’s hollow-eyed smiles._

_Ruin, the Shard of decay._

* * *

The rain fell harder, drumming on wood and stone and tile. Kaladin fell faster, as though that might help him outrun the past.

A cruel joke, that’s what it was. Adonalsium’s final act of spite, to take a pure boy, Kaladin’s light, the one who had kept hope and laughter alive through the darkest nights, and turn him into a god of corruption. A force for despair.

Over the centuries it had grown harder to tell his thoughts from Preservation’s, except in this one regard. Preservation looked at Ruin and saw an enemy, a bitter rival, to be stopped at any cost. Kaladin saw Tien, his brother, a kind and generous man, who had to be protected.

The urge to shelter him had not faded since the day they took up their burdens.

* * *

 

_Kaladin took Tien and fled. Fled from pity, fled from encouragement, fled from Rayse’s gloating laughter._

_The man had never liked Kaladin, and Tien even less._

_They were the first to leave the sixteen, pulling themselves across the stars to a quiet, lonely world._

_“Are you scared, Kaladin?” Tien asked as they walked the mountains of their new home. They didn’t need a physical form any longer, but they took it anyway. It was easier that way, for Kaladin at least. Better to remember the boy within the power._

_Kaladin reached out, smiling as best he could, and smoothed Tien’s hair. “I’m protecting you.”_

_“From myself?”_

_The words stung, and Kaladin turned away. A valley spread out below them, full of greenery and wildlife. Birds nested in lush treetops. Flowers in a dozen colors blanketed the gentle slopes. Behind them, where Tien’s feet had landed, was only brown._

_“This isn’t you,” he said, watching the grass around Tien wither and die._

_“Death doesn’t have to be a bad thing, Kaladin. I can make it easier. I can help you.”_

* * *

A thousand arguments took up with the images in the rain. _Everything ends sometime. Every ending is a new beginning. And just think, Kaladin—now I get to_ make fossils _._

Tien had always had a new line ready to try on Kaladin. A fresh attempt to make his big brother see hope and light in their situation. As though there was any hope left. Maybe Tien believed what he was saying, that Ruin was not an inherently evil Shard. Maybe. Kaladin did not.

His brother never should have had to think about the upside of death and decay.

But he had, and for a time he’d even convinced Kaladin that things would work out. They shaped Scadrial together, carving the land and herding the creatures. Tien had not wanted to make humanity, but he’d seen how much it meant to Kaladin and had given in.

None of it could stop the inevitable.

* * *

_Kaladin watched as Ruin took over. It began as a hardness in his voice, a boredom with the limits of physical form. Tien became obsessed with destruction and spoke of death with chilling disinterest._

_“Your Shard has changed you,” Kaladin said, taking on a body of mist. It was too hard to talk to his brother when he became fully corporeal and Tien remained aloof. Yet Kaladin liked to remind himself of who he had been. Of what really mattered: not Preservation, but a young man and his brother._

_Tien said nothing at first, but irritation hummed through the air. “Do you ever think it’s just being alive so long that’s the problem?” Tien sighed, and a blight ravaged the fields below. “Everything ends sometime, Kaladin. Everyone dies. Except us.”_

* * *

Tien would never have said those words. Not with that weary tone, the melancholy Kaladin knew so well. Tien was supposed to be the light that cut through that gloom. Now he was the one who needed Kaladin to lift him up…and Kaladin didn’t know how to do that.

He had tried, and failed. And Tien slid further into Ruin. So deep Kaladin feared his brother might simply cease to be.

The thought had sparked a panic in Kaladin, a fear his human side had not felt in eons. A fear Preservation had not _stopped_ feeling in as long. The fear of loss.

For once, his heart and his Shard were in accord, and he took action before either could waver. He sealed Tien in the Well, removed from Ruin’s power, safe in Kaladin’s embrace. Tien fought— _Ruin_ fought—but Kaladin would hold on to the end of time. For his brother he would.

He knew it wouldn’t be enough.

A thousand years ago, he had come near to disaster. Tien had tried to break free, and Kaladin had barely contained him.

It would happen again soon, and Kaladin had to be prepared. Doubly so, because Tien knew him well enough to anticipate whatever plan he laid. Rashek would do what had to be done, if he could, but Alendi’s intentions had been nearly as pure before Ruin touched him.

Reluctantly, Kaladin withdrew from the Weeping. It hadn’t calmed his mind as he’d hoped, and this could be put off no more.

Ruin was rising. He had to be stopped.

Kaladin could not do it, not when it might well mean Tien’s death.

Mist hung thick over Luthadel where the Weeping had passed. Kaladin walked dark streets as a wraith, invisible to those few skaa thieves who braved the night. He found the hovel easily enough, and stopped at the window to watch the child within.

A champion.

She was Kaladin’s last gambit, an infant who would become a hero. She would be strong, and brave, and wise. More importantly, she would have Tien’s kindness and loyalty.

Kaladin would die protecting his brother. The only path he could take, though not the one the world needed.

That choice he entrusted to his champion.


	2. Roshar

Leras would never get used to war. The cacophony of men and horses screaming, dying. The hot press of bodies, the weight of a spear in his hand. Blood on his spearman’s leathers and in his hair. His own blood, and his friends’, and his enemies’.

He couldn’t see more than ten paces ahead as he pushed through the crush of bodies, using his shield more than his spear to fend off attackers. It was foolish; any darkeyes in Leras’s squad could have told him as much. A soldier couldn’t be squeamish about killing.

Any other day, Leras would have heeded his own advice. The longer he survived, the longer he could keep his promise.

Today, he had more pressing concerns.

* * *

_There had been other wars, other armies, before Amaram’s. Leras had joined up as a youth, eager for adventure and glory and all the other naïve dreams that drew men to their deaths._

_He’d imagined something much different than what he found. A noble fight instead of one ruthless slaughter after another. Honor won defending Alethkar instead of fame won killing Alethi from a rival princedom._

_Somehow, in his childhood fantasies, he’d only seen the lives saved. Never the lives taken._

_Still, he’d stayed. Whatever else he was, he wasn’t a deserter. He’d served his four years, then returned to Hearthstone and picked up the carpentry business his father had built. He took on apprentices, bowed to Brightlord Wistiow and to Brightlord Roshone after him, though privately he thought the new citylord deserved to be taken down a peg._

_Years corroded his renown. His neighbors’ reverence faded to respect tempered by friendly jibes, faded to dim remembrance that he’d ever been a soldier at all. Leras the squadleader became Leras the carpenter. Respected, but no more than any other craftsman._

_That suited Leras just fine. Furniture and shutters and chests made for a better legacy than anything he’d ever found on the battlefield._

_He never quite lost his urge to protect, however, and when the surgeon made enemies of Roshone, Leras led Hearthstone in slipping his family what food and clothes they needed. Many townsfolk feared the brightlord too much to ally openly with the surgeon, but not Leras. He’d faced far worse than a lighteyes with a bruised ego._

_He met Ati one afternoon during a stretch of summer. He’d brought food enough for a feast, along with bandages and other such gifts collected from recent patients. It was no more, and no less, than the gifts other patients had given for other services, before Roshone had “discouraged” such shows of gratitude._

_It was rebellion, now._

_The boy sat beneath the leeward window in the kitchen, whittling a lump of wood with sluggish motions, stopping from time to time to wipe the sheen of sweat from his forehead._

_It wasn’t the first time Leras had brought gifts to the surgeon’s house. Every time before, the surgeon’s son had been out. Leras had seen him in passing, a scrawny boy of twelve who always trailed behind others his age and never seemed to join their huddles. He’d been close with Laral, before Roshone. Now he mostly kept to himself._

_Hearthstone was a quiet town far from the schools of Kholinar and Kharbranth. Aside from ardents who came down from Roshone’s mansion once in a while, the people here knew few men who weren’t laborers of one sort or another. A surgeon, however necessary, unnerved them. The discomfort rubbed off on their children, who took it out on Ati. It didn’t matter that, having shown no promise in surgery, Ati had stopped studying his father’s anatomy texts some time ago._

_His family was different, so he was different. To some, that was all that mattered._

_Leras paused on his way out of the house. The motion of Ati’s whittling knife slowed. The boy looked up warily._

_Smiling, Leras crouched beside him. Ati knew the house well; the shadow beneath the window was noticeably cooler than the sweltering heat that filled the rest of the room. “I don’t think we’ve met,” Leras said, holding out a hand. “I’m Leras.”_

_“Ati.” The boy juggled his knife and the hunk of wood, then shook Leras’s hand once, a bit overzealously. “I’ve heard about you. From Father.”_

_“Oh?” Leras raised an eyebrow. “Nothing bad, I hope.”_

_Ati grinned. “Does that mean there’s something bad to hear?”_

_That startled a laugh out of Leras, and he shifted to sit against the wall beside Ati. “Oh, I figure everyone does bad things, once in a while.”_

_“I don’t believe that.” There was no doubt in Ati’s voice. His dark brown eyes shone with conviction. “Most people are good,” he said. “You, too.”_

_“What makes you say that?”_

_“You bring us food, even though Roshone said not to pay Father for his work.”_

_“It’s not payment,” Leras said, tapping his nose conspiratorially. Ati grinned. “And it’s not from me. It’s from the whole town.”_

_The look Ati gave him, head tilted and eyes half-lidded, said he wasn’t buying Leras’s self-effacing front. “You bring it in the middle of the day, so Roshone knows what you’re doing. You could sneak it in, or come at night, but you don’t. You want Roshone to know you’re on our side.”_

_The boy was sharp, Leras had to admit. “Old habits,” he said, and gave Ati no further explanation. He was too young to be worrying about politics and an old soldier’s stubborn rebellion._

_They talked a few minutes more about nothing much, Ati returning to his whittling. Ati stopped him when he made to get up._

_“This is for you,” he said, and pressed his hunk of wood into Leras’s hand before scurrying off through the back door._

_Smiling after the boy, Leras looked down at the wood—not idle work, as Leras had assumed, but a work of art that took Leras’s breath away._

_Ati had carved Leras himself, down to the scar across his cheek, with no small skill. But rather than the rough work clothes Leras wore, and had worn for some years, Ati’s carving showed him in full Shardplate, with a shield in one hand and a Blade in the other._

* * *

A week later, Ati was Leras’s apprentice. He had talent. Perhaps he lacked the discipline for the simple, sturdy projects that made the bulk of Leras’s workload. His knack for embellishment and art more than made up for it.

For two years, they worked together, talked about art and healing and lighteyes and war—much of it things Leras would just as soon have not brought up around a boy who hadn’t yet seen his fifteenth Weeping. Ati wouldn’t let him hold back. His curiosity was insatiable, his mind remarkably mature.

And somehow, he never lost his kindness. He never stopped carving toys and figurines and pendants and giving them away.

_And now you’ve brought him into Damnation itself._

An enemy soldier—Leras neither knew nor cared who he fought today—jabbed his spear toward Leras’s unprotected legs. Leras’s spear snapped down and knocked the other away.

He ran on, skidding down a rocky slope slick with blood and the remnants of yesterday’s highstorm. It was early in the day, and mist eddied in the lowest hollows where men died alone. Another day, Leras might have stopped to check on them, see if there was time to call a medic.

But then, on another day he would still be with his squad. Wouldn’t have asked his second to take command.

Leras took a gash on the shoulder and barely slowed. Hot blood ran down his arm. It didn’t matter.

_Please, Almighty, let me not be too late._

* * *

_Leras should have recognized the signs of a brewing storm. It began the day Rillir died. The day Roshone decided to make Ati’s whole family pay._

_The tension built with each passing day—pressure on the townsfolk to stop aiding their surgeon, pressure on Leras in particular, threats to his business and his property. Leras ignored them all, and though some of the neighbors were cowed, many still sided with him and with the surgeon._

_Naively, he thought that was the worst of it._

_Brightlord Amaram’s arrival chilled him to the marrow. A routine recruitment, so they said. Leras knew better, and when the town was summoned to the square, Leras’s eyes went straight to Ati. He was fourteen by then, scarcely taller than he’d been at twelve. The whites of his eyes stood out as he turned, huddling against his father’s side._

_Half the square separated them, scores of townsfolk, but Leras wormed his way through the crowd one step at a time, forcing a smile for Ati’s sake. He kept his eyes on the boy, even as Amaram began to speak._

_The words floated on the edge of awareness. A call for volunteers, and when that trickle petered out, the announcement Leras had been expecting. The army needed soldiers. Roshone, as citylord, had right and duty to select the conscripts. He could not name his two foremost enemies, for a surgeon was above conscription and Leras had already served._

_That left Roshone a single avenue for vengeance, one Leras was ashamed to have even seen. A son for a son._

_When Ati’s name was called, the boy dropped like deadwood. His parents fared scarcely better. Leras, a thin layer of ice over burning rage, shouldered his way through the last clump of townsfolk and planted himself between Ati and Roshone._

_“I volunteer.”_

_Ati’s gasp sounded loud in Leras’s ears._

_Amaram glanced at Roshone, who waved a dismissal. “You can’t.”_

_“I was a squadleader under Brightlord Terilar for three years. I have experience that outweighs any use you might have for this boy.”_

_Recognition sparked in Amaram’s light eyes at the mention of his predecessor, but Roshone’s face only darkened. “I have the right to decide who we can afford to send, and that_ boy _is the first!”_

_Leras turned, reached out to help Ati to his feet. He didn’t look at the lighteyes as he said, “Then I will go with him.”_

* * *

Scarcely four months had passed since that day. Leras had quickly taken command of a squad of spearmen. He had worked things out with Brightlord Amaram so Ati served as a runner, kept well out of the fighting. For the time being, at least.

Amaram had given further assurances that, if and when Ati was required to take up a spear and shield, he would do so under Leras’s command. Under Leras’s protection.

Funny, how quickly brightlords forgot their oaths. Half a dozen battles, and Ati held the spear.

 _Not_ in Leras’s squad.

His body ached from running hard across a battlefield, ducking swords and spears, missing enemies creeping up on his flank. His spearman’s leathers were dark with blood, and Leras had lost track of how much was his.

Ati needed him. Nothing else mattered.

A pair of enemy spearmen blocked his path atop a low rise. Leras kept on, until both men lunged, and then he spun aside, cut one man’s legs out from under him. The second brought his spear around, and Leras raised his shield. His spearhead took the man in the throat before he could launch a second attack.

It was nowhere near as noble as the idealistic carving Ati had given him two years ago, of Leras with Plate and Blade. That carving, worn from handling, hung in a pouch on Leras’s belt. Darkeyed soldiers kept few possessions, but Leras didn’t mind. He had what he needed.

Leras turned. His eyes found Ati, clutching his spear at the front of a cluster of young boys. Too young for the army, every one of them. Too exposed, with the rest of the army pulling back on either side. Too exposed.

They were using them as bait.

A bellow broke from Leras’s throat. The sound reached Ati, who turned as Leras made to sprint into the hollow. Hope spread across Ati’s wan face.

And a spear caught Leras’s calf.

The first spearman. Leras had forgotten him in his haste. A novice’s mistake. Leras stumbled, pushing through the pain. Ati needed him. Ati…

Leras looked up, searching for Ati.

Their eyes locked an instant before the enemy cavalry closed in.

Blades flashed.

Leras’s world crumbled.


End file.
